


Only Fools Rush In

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Series: I Can't Help It (Falling In Love With You) [1]
Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: And Adam Jones is Just a Straight Up Disaster, Assumed Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Tony Balerdi is the Definition of Disaster Gay, everyone knows they're in love except them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17628683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: “You seen the new issue yet?” Adam shifts his weight, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “The Modern Restaurant article?” And there is no time left at all when his gaze lights on the magazine half-hidden beneath the budgeting spreadsheet. He sighs. “Yeah, I guess you have.”Somehow, Tony is certain this is all his fault. Mortified, he makes an aborted attempt to cover the magazine again. “Adam, I --”Adam slips the copy of Modern Restaurant out from under Tony’s grip to thumb through the pages, lingering over the four-page spread of photos. “Apparently you and I are in a committed relationship and deeply in love with one another.” He tosses the revelation out casually, bemused.





	Only Fools Rush In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).



> Title is from Elvis's "Can't Help Falling in Love".
> 
> Jake, I hope this lives up to your 'fake dating fic' expectations. Ich liebe dich!
> 
> Side Note: how come I can write 6,000 words of these idiots falling in love in one day, but I try to write 100 words for anything original and it's the world's worst form of torture.

_Wise men say only fools rush in_  
_But I can't help falling in love with you_

 

It is a day of madness.

Tony has barely had time to gather his thoughts, much less to make headway with the piles of paperwork gathering on his desk. A hundred booking requests, a thousand questions to answer and problems to solve, and it is not even noon. There is nothing for it but to hole up in the back office, tied to his desk phone, and let the staff get on serving without him.

Adam, never one to be deterred by things like closed doors, pokes his head in to check on Tony when the lunch rush has finally slowed to a trickle. Tony has the receiver jammed between his ear and shoulder, scribbling a few quick notes in his leaning, narrow hand. Adam waves to catch his attention, forms an ‘okay’ with his fingers, mouthing the question.

Nodding, Tony waves him off.

He ends up half-ignoring a conference call, sorting through the mail that always manages to accumulate faster than he can be rid of it. And, in between the three resumes to look over and the bills from their produce suppliers, is the magazine.

The sight of it stops Tony in his tracks, even though he had known it was coming -- had been expecting it. His long fingers still, hovering over the glossy cover.

He had not expected them to use the picture of them both.

Adam had grumbled and groused his way through the photo session, posed and impatient in the Langham kitchens, had caught Tony lingering on the periphery of it all and insisted on drawing him, pulling the quiet maitre d’ into the spotlight.

The photo had been taken in the Langham’s foyer; Adam’s arm wrapped around Tony’s shoulders, pale eyes striking, grin rakish. At his side, caught beneath the weight of Adam’s heavy arm, Tony has none of the chef’s easy charm or confidence. The half-smile sits awkward, uncertain on his face.

It catches his breath, the sight of it. The two of them frozen in time, immortalized on the cover of  _ Modern Restaurant _ with a headline that proclaims ‘ _ The Langham and Adam Jones: A Profile on Success and Second Chances _ ’. Tony traces a fingertip over the sateen print of Adam’s sharp face, warmth blooming proud and full behind his breastbone.

How far they have come.

He thumbs through the magazine, refocusing the minimal attention he had spared for the drudgery of the conference call. There are articles on  _ The Importance of Energy Efficiency in Kitchens _ , features on  _ Cutting Edge Tools All Chefs Need _ , and  _ Top Marketing Trends -- Find Your Style _ . And… the profile on Adam Jones and the Langham.

The magazine slips from Tony’s hands. 

_ Adam Jones at the Langham: The Return of a Rockstar _

_ langham chef talks recovery, kitchen classics, and workplace romance _

“ _ Mierda _ .”

It is all wrong.

> _ When asked about his recent success in the kitchens of London’s Langham Hotel, Adam Jones is quick to point to  _ maitre d’ _ and hotel manager Tony Balerdi as instrumental in his comeback to the kitchen scene. _
> 
> _ “It wouldn’t have been possible without Tony,” Jones informed us with great candor. “Simple as that. I knew if I was going to try again, to get the third star, I needed him on my side.” _

And the photographs. 

Adam leaning down, crowding into his space as Tony smooths out the collar of his button down. The pair of them laughing. Tony lingering in the background, his eyes soft with adoration as Adam leans so casually against the pass.

> _ The affection Jones and Balerdi have for one another is readily apparent throughout the interview. “We’re partners,” said Balerdi of their relationship, and it is more than clear in their interactions that this is true in every sense. They laugh throughout our conversation, bolstering one another, and clearly in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Jones’s brash confidence and energy is balanced by Balerdi who is quiet and even-keeled with his own sharp sense of humor. It is obvious that this partnership of theirs, romantic and professional, is what has allowed the Langham to rebound and achieve the success it has. _
> 
> _ “We make great food,” Jones said. “We’ve built a great restaurant. And we’ve done it together.” _

The conference call is still going, shareholders blathering words that Tony cannot possibly comprehend when everything in his brain has been distilled down to  _ romance _ and  _ relationship _ and  _ partners _ . He hangs up, the dial tone echoing through the office, low and monotone, as he slumps forward over the desk, threading his fingers into his hair.

“Fuck.”

How could this happen? How had that interviewer reached into the deepest recesses of Tony’s mind, conjured up that desperate, hopeless wish and put it to paper?

This imagined relationship -- it breaks his heart. It is impossible, no matter how much be might wish. And -- the fact that they would print this… That they had thought… 

He buries it beneath the rest of the mail, hot with shame, as though it is something illicit to secret away. As though it is his fault, his doing -- unable to conceal his feelings well enough to keep them from leaking out, spilling over onto the page.

It is nothing more than a pipe dream.

This time, Adam has the decency to knock as he swings the office door open, peering in to check if Tony is still tied up in phone calls. “Hey.”

Tony startles, the color rising in his face. “Adam.”

He needs to call the press -- needs them to issue a retraction before Adam can see the damning, disastrous article. There is still time to fix this.

“You seen the new issue yet?” Adam shifts his weight, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “The Modern Restaurant article?” And there is no time left at all when his gaze lights on the magazine half-hidden beneath the budgeting spreadsheet. He sighs. “Yeah, I guess you have.”

Somehow, Tony is certain this is all his fault. Mortified, he makes an aborted attempt to cover the magazine again. “Adam, I --”

Adam slips the copy of  _ Modern Restaurant _ out from under Tony’s grip to thumb through the pages, lingering over the four-page spread of photos. “Apparently you and I are in a committed relationship and deeply in love with one another.” He tosses the revelation out casually, bemused.

Tony blushes, has to look away before he can betray himself. Because he  _ is _ \-- no matter how hard he has tried to dismiss his feelings, he is in love with Adam. And, God, but he wishes it were all true. Knows that it is impossible.

“I will call them immediately,” he is blathering, the words falling out in an apologetic rush. “I can explain to them that this was a tremendous mistake -- a misunderstanding. They will have to issue a retraction at once -- I can still fix this. I...” 

“You’re in love with me.”

Adam says it softly, does not phrase it as a question.

Tony stills. Closes his eyes and swallows down the damning swell of a hundred different emotions.  “Unfortunately.”

A regretful sigh. Adam had known -- has always known, really -- and Tony’s love is a precious thing that ought to be bestowed on someone who might love him properly in return. Not the likes of Adam Jones. “I’m sorry,” Adam says, and he is. He doesn’t want to hurt Tony any more than he already has.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tony is well-practiced in this art, stowing away his feelings, protecting the most fragile parts of his heart. He reaches for the phone.

It does matter, though. Adam isn’t sure why, but it does. So much.

He catches Tony’s wrist on the receiver, stills him before he can dial. And, slow, thoughtful, he finds himself saying “what if we just leave it?”

Tony is certain he must have misheard. “I don’t…” He frowns, shakes his head -- it doesn’t make any sense. “You mean, pretend you are in love with me? Why?”

_ Why, indeed.  _ Adam shrugs. “Why not? Maybe they got the angle wrong, but it’s still good press. All the stuffy articles about new ways to cook food in a condom, the same profiles of the same chefs who aren’t doing anything new?” He stabs a finger at the magazine, warming to the idea as he speaks -- convincing Tony, convincing himself. “At least that’s gonna make people sit up and take notice.”

“You mean you want to use it as a publicity stunt.” Tony bristles. The Langham’s token queers -- a gimmick to stand out among the crowd. Over his dead body. “Diversity points.”

The moment he sees the dangerous, wrathful sparks in Tony’s eyes, Adam is quick to backpedal, knowing he has screwed up once again. “No, not -- fuck, that’s not what I meant.” He struggles for the right words beneath the weight of Tony’s stare. “Look, the more we start kicking up a fit, issuing retractions, the more this thing is going to become a bigger deal than it needs to be. Let people think what they want, it’ll die off on its own in a week.”

Tony hesitates.

_ Let them think what they want. _

In the end, he does not call.

 

* * *

 

There is a queasy, anxious sensation that sits high in the pit of Tony’s stomach -- every time he looks at Adam, the article rises to the forefront of his mind.  _ This is what it would look like if he loved you _ . He avoids Adam as much as he can, barely says a word to him while they weather out the week, waiting for the story to die off.

It doesn’t.

Adam is stalking the greengrocers seeking inspiration, considering the in-season produce and what he might create, where they source their weekly supplies, when he spots the photo, staring out at him from the magazine racks. The  _ Modern Restaurant _ cover with his arm slung around Tony’s shoulders. A less-than-flattering candid of Adam with his hair long and his face gaunt in the last few months before the catastrophe in Paris. And, emblazoned across the cover of the gossip rag: 

_ Casanova Chef’s Gay Fling? _

“Well, shit.”

He is half a block from the Langham when he spots the group milling about on the front steps. No more than six of them, all dressed in street clothes far too casual to be dining at the Langham. Tourists? Guests at the hotel? By the time Adam spots the cameras, it is too late to turn back -- they have already spotted him. 

“Mr. Jones -- Mr. Jones!” Ignoring his growl of ‘ _ fuck off _ ’ the reporter, tenacious, jogs at his heels, chasing him up the steps. “How long have you been in a relationship with Tony Balerdi?”

Adam ignores him, throws an elbow as he forces his way through the press.

An iPhone thrust into his face, recording. “Did he hire you on as executive chef before or after you slept with him?”

It hits Adam like a punch in the gut, one hand on the door. An ugly implication and one that Adam will not stand for.

He turns, the sunlight catching dangerous in his cold eyes. “No. I didn’t.” Adam looms, sharply furious with his finger bones creaking, drawn up into tight fists. It doesn’t matter what they have to say about him -- he has dragged himself through the mud often enough. But Tony? They aren’t allowed to touch him. “Tony doesn’t play games like that.”

“What about --?”

“Piss off.” He whirls, slamming the door in their faces.

He finds Tony already in the kitchen, white-faced and miserable looking with his hip propped against the pass, hunched in on himself.

“So,” Tony sighs, the moment he sees Adam’s thunderous glower. “You have encountered them now, too?”

“Unfortunately.” Adam circles the pass, squeezing his shoulder. Tony can hold his own, wouldn’t be where he is if he couldn’t, but all the same Adam’s hackles are still raised and he finds himself worried. Protective. This is his doing, after all. “They harass you?”

Tony shrugs, tries to brush it off as though it does not matter how much it all makes his skin crawl with panic. “Just stupid questions.”

Adam squeezes him into a sideways hug, apologetic.

For a moment, Tony lets himself lean against Adam. Lets himself imagine that it means something, that it might be more than just the reassurance of a friend. But none of it is true -- the relationship built on a lie.

He pulls away.

“Ignore it, Tony,” Helene advises, folding her arms. “The bile those gossip rags spew isn’t worth the ink it’s printed with.”

That only makes it worse, somehow. Knowing that Helene has read the things printed about them -- their supposed relationship -- and had not even considered that there could be a grain of truth to it.

“I know.” He pulls himself upright, forces himself to shake off the clouds of heartache and embarrassment. The consummate professional. “Adam, if you could please have the menu ready in half an hour?”

Adam blinks. Bemused by the sudden change. “Yeah,” he mumbles.” Yeah, of course.”

“Thank you.”

And Tony disappears into the office to fracture silently, privately.

The bright side of the press attention, of having reporters linger on the Langham’s doorstep, is that the dining room is booked to capacity. There is not a moment to pause, to breathe; the kitchen barely able to keep up with the endless stream of orders that come flying through the doors. In the middle of lunch service, Tony emerges from the office to plunge into the fray -- orchestrating the flow of plates to tables, smoothing over the little snags before they can become catastrophes.

Somehow, in the midst of it, Adam still finds himself returning again and again to Tony. Every time he appears silent and steady at the pass to await the next order, when their hands brush ever so briefly, trading dishes. He  _ likes _ him, and Tony deserves better than their thinly-veiled fake romance.

They could stage a breakup; that would settle the issue easily enough.

And yet, something about that solution feels wrong, bothers Adam deep in his core. Though he couldn’t say why.

He finds himself staying long after all the skillets and soup pots have been scrubbed to burnished perfection, after the counter tops have been lathered with soap and wiped clean. There is nothing left to do, no reason for him to loiter in the empty kitchen, except for Tony who had retreated back into the quiet of the office. Who emerges, eventually, unguarded for once -- his face forlorn, shoulders drawn.

“Hey.” 

Tony frowns, quickly shakes off his surprise. “I thought you had left.”

“Nah,” Adam slouches against the counter, looking him up and down with curious, inscrutably blue eyes. “Thought maybe I’d walk with you.”

And Tony has no idea what to do with that offer. “All the way there and then walk all the way back here again?” He shakes his head, lips pursed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Still, his heart squeezes painfully at the notion -- Adam being kind, offering him something that might almost be romantic if it were anyone else…

Impossible.

He tries to brush past, to escape, but Adam catches him gently by the arm. Reels him in. “Now, c’mon Tones,” he cajoles. “I’ve dragged you into my bullshit again, the least I can do is walk you to the Tube station.”

Tony hesitates. Does he really want to pretend like this?

“Okay.”

In the cool spring twilight, he is glad for Adam’s easy presence at his side. Quiet, companionable. He bumps Tony’s shoulder, trails his hand down the length of his sleeve to slip his hand thoughtlessly, carefully into Tony’s own.

Tony hates the knot that rises in his throat; the terrible, familiar swell of emotion that threatens to strangle him. Adam’s palm is warm, dry. His fingers knobby and fitted into the spaces between Tony’s own. And Tony could forget, with Adam holding his hand like it means something, that it is all a farce. 

“I didn’t ask,” Adam breaks the silence, letting his gaze wander in the purple evening. “But I probably should have -- you’re not seeing anyone right now, are you? This isn’t…?” 

“No.” Tony flushes, grateful that the darkness hides the worst of his shame. Though, what he is ashamed of, he isn’t quite certain. “There is no one to be troubled over our relationship.” A pause. “Such as it is.”

“Oh.” The quiet admission bothers Adam more than it should. “Well, that’s too bad.”

“Why?” Tony risks a sideways glance up at him. He is more than familiar with Adam’s old habits, with the crying girlfriends and the boyfriends that had come around looking for blood. “You want there to be a jealous someone, or --?”

“No. No, I just… you deserve someone.”

Tony tuts, dismissive. Has to look away before he betrays himself any further.

They linger on the sidewalk beneath the red brick arches of the Oxford Circus Underground Station, the moment stretched out, tenuous.

At last, Adam nods slightly toward the entryway. “This is you, I guess.” 

“Oh.” Tony blinks as though emerging from a dream -- from the false hopes and treacherous imaginations that cling between them. “Yes.”

Adam cups his cheek, then. A strange, tender gesture, brushing the pad of his thumb lightly across the swell of Tony’s cheekbone. “Night, Tones.” A gentle pat and then he is gone, leaving the warm ghost of his touch against Tony’s cheek as he lopes off with hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

Tony hardly knows what to do with himself.

* * *

 

Adam likes it, walking with Tony.

He finds himself slipping out the Langham’s back entrance early in the mornings, to meet him at the Tube station, rocking back on his heels while he waits for he familiar face to appear cresting the stairs. On the third day, Tony hands him a second coffee cup -- black as tar, the way Adam has always taken it -- with a smile.

In the evenings, when the kitchen is at last laid to rest, Adam throws himself down on the narrow couch in the office and relaxes into the clack of the keyboard, the shuffling of pages and pen-scratching and Tony muttering to himself as he works. Occasionally, he will ask Adam’s opinion, will smile out at him from behind the computer. And they will walk together to the station at the corner of Oxford and Regent Street.

They trade notes on the day’s work as they walk, debate the particulars of the menus, where service had been too slow or a diner particularly demanding. And, memories of Paris creep into the discussions -- the better, brighter times. 

Adam brings New Orleans to life for Tony; the city he had spent two years stumbling through on his way to sobriety. It hadn’t all been brutal penance. There had been incredible food. Music. Light and life. Tony smiles and Adam finds out that he likes jazz, that he prefers vinyl to digital, that -- once upon a time -- Tony Balerdi had known how to play guitar. 

They never go further than the station.

It is still no more than fiction.

Adam finds himself returning again and again to the Modern Restaurant article that still lays open on his dresser, their imagined relationship spilling from its pages.

He knows Tony loves him. It is a constant of his universe.

_ We’re a great team. _

His own face staring up from the cover, eyes photohopped too-blue, Tony tucked into his side like he belongs there. He had floated around the edges of the photographer’s session, insisting that Adam was the face of the Langham, that there was no reason for Tony to be in the photos too. And Adam had hooked him by the elbow and dragged him bodily into the frame, held him in place while the photographer ducked and clicked and rearranged the lighting.

_ The affection Jones and Balerdi have for one another is readily apparent throughout the interview. _

Tony fixing the line of Adam’s collar -- they had not caught the way he had grumbled good-naturedly about Adam being entirely unpresentable. The two of them laughing at something stupid Adam had said about the overly-staged photos as he had stood and pretended to saute a pan of vegetables. 

Graceful, gorgeous Tony, lit up with warmth and exasperated affection and captured in a few photographs. And Adam -- the Adam Jones in these images is not a facet of himself he is familiar with; proud, relaxed and easy with his laughter. Softened, with Tony orbiting the edges of his space.

_ Jones and Balerdi are a partnership built on a deep and readily apparent affection for one another and a pride in their work.  _

The interviewer had seen all this -- the something between them, the fondness, the essential-ness of Adam and Tony as two halves of a whole. Had thought it looked like love.

Maybe -- Adam had to concede the point -- maybe, they weren’t wrong.

He turns the kitchen over to Helene for the afternoon, sequesters himself in the corner to fight with the desserts -- searching for just the right balance of ingredients to create perfect mocha pots de créme. The first batch is too thick. The second, too fluffy.

And, when Tony swans through the kitchen doors, all poised and bright with cheerful energy, Adam is struck by the insistent curiosity that has always been his downfall -- the need to test and poke and see what will happen. Does he love Tony Balerdi? He thinks so. But he always has to push, has to see exactly how far a thing can go before it will break. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”

“Sure.” Tony braces his hands on the pastry table, lifting himself up onto his toes as he surveys the carnage of pastry and chocolate créme. “Everything, okay?”

“Yeah.” Adam nods, over-eager. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Taste this for me?” And, swabbing his finger along the rim of the mixing bowl, he gathers up a glob of the lightweight chocolate and extends his hand toward Tony.

He wants to see how this plays out.

Tony raises his eyebrows, stares at Adam for a moment as though he has lost his mind. Adam’s scrutiny is a heavy weight upon his shoulders, the tips of his ears smoldering pink. Tony stalls. “These are the desserts for the dinner menu?”

“Yeah -- want to make sure I’ve got the balance right. Not too sweet, not too bitter.”

Flushed with the intimacy of it and unwilling to concede to the fluttering in the pit of his belly, Tony leans in, catching Adam’s finger between his lips. And, all at once, every drop of blood seems to rush from Adam’s head -- leaves him dizzy and floating with the sensuality of it, the sweet way Tony blushes and ducks his head with eyelashes fluttering dark over his cheeks. The warmth of his mouth.

Adam manages to eek out “thoughts?”

Tony considers for a moment, tasting the last burst of bittersweet chocolate on his tongue. He nods. “Is good. Just the right amount of sweetness.” 

“It isn’t too fluffy, is it?” Adam is not sure whether he genuinely doubts the texture, or whether he just wants Tony to stay.

“No,” Tony is quick to reassure him, fidgety with the need to escape from Adam’s stare. “It’s perfect. That is all?”

“Yeah, thanks Tony.”

“Service!”

Tony turns on his heel to scoop up the plates, grateful for the chance to flee. Adam watches him disappear through the wide double doors. Idly, he lifts his finger to his lips, tastes the last sharp hints of chocolate, imagines that he tastes Tony too.

Almost like a kiss.

_ Jones’s brash confidence and energy is balanced by Balerdi who is quiet and even-keeled with his own sharp sense of humor.  _

Does Adam love him?

There are brief, glancing touches when Tony collects orders from the pass, Adam’s fingertips brushing over his knuckles, finding the soft insides of his wrists. And there are too-long looks from Tony, faint touches of fear and desire that shine behind his eyes -- it can’t all be playacting, can it? There are no cameras to pander to in the endless rush of the Langham’s kitchens.

They walk together to Oxford Street. 

Adam brushes their hands together, slips Tony’s arm through his elbow. And Tony, certain that it is still all for show, knows that Adam does not love him -- cannot stop himself from indulging, just a little bit, in the broken-hearted fantasy, the dream that this is real.

And then, Adam is not there.

Tony walks the five minutes to the Langham alone, taking himself to task for his own stupidity. 

He shouldn’t have let himself believe, should have known better than to be wrapped up in the play of it -- Adam doesn’t love him. It is all been an act, and at long last the requests for more interviews have petered out, the paparazzi on the Langham's front steps have moved on. There is no need to pretend anymore.

If only Tony could move on so easily.

Adam is in the kitchen when he arrives, rolling out pastry dough on his own and up to his elbows in flour. He glances up at the whisper of the kitchen doors on their well-oiled hinges, eyes sparkling when he spots Tony. “Mornin’.”

“Morning.” Tony cannot keep the disappointment from his voice. All he wants is to disappear into the office, to ignore Adam and pretend that nothing had ever passed between them.

Instead, as he rounds the pass Adam reaches to draw him in, captures Tony's face in the cradle of his palm, and kisses him.

It is soft and tender -- a brief, sweet  _ hello _ \-- and it breaks Tony's fragile, battered heart.

Tony, reeling, has to catch the edge of the pass to hold himself up.  _ It isn't real. _ But he  _ wants _ . Dear God, he wants.

“Sorry I didn’t walk with you.” Adam takes the side towel from his belt, gently wipes away the smudges of flour he has left on Tony’s cheek. “I wanted to get a start on these -- they take for-fucking-ever to make.”

“Oh, it’s --” Tony is all out of words, his lips still humming with the taste of Adam. The way he had kissed him as though it happened every day. He waves Adam away, sick with grief. “No matter. It is all for show, anyway, and the press have finally left our doorstep.”

The words taste bitter.

Adam is surprised by the hollow pang at the base of his breastbone. A blow just behind is floating ribs.

“Yeah.” The agreement is faint, strained. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I should…” Tony gestures uselessly, his ochre eyes darting, trying to look anywhere, at anything that is not Adam Jones. “Kaitlin needs me to go over the seating arrangements for tonight...” And there it is, the familiar nervous tic, scratching at the tip of his nose. Evasive. “We are short two servers, of course. The assignments need to be redone…”

He trails off. There is nothing for it but to turn and flee, coward that he is.

Adam watches him go, and isn't quite sure how to tell him to stay.

He traces a knuckle over the swell of his bottom lip, over the taste of Tony and the ghost of his soft, stubborn mouth. Adam wants nothing more than to kiss him again.

 

* * *

 

Tony buries himself in the details of their supplier accounts and hopes that, if he works late enough, Adam will give up. Will leave him to his peace and his heartache. Instead, Adam breezes into the office, drops himself down on the couch and kicks up his feet as though nothing has changed at all.

He watches Tony -- neither one of them willing to break the silence, to say any of the hundred-thousand things that need to be said between them. The lamplight paints Tony in soft golden hues, throws shadows across the frown that knots itself between his eyebrows, highlights the way Tony’s mouth twists, deep in concentration.

It takes some time before Tony is aware he is being watched, but there is no ignoring the  steady focus of Adam’s electric blue eyes.

He risks glancing up from his spreadsheet, highlighter still poised. “What?”

Adam smiles. “Nothin’. You almost done beating those numbers into submission?”

“Tch. I think they are beating  _ me _ .” Tony tosses down the spreadsheet, irritated -- with the numbers that won’t add up, with Adam who has kissed him and teased him and left him tied up in knots. “Tonight, I give up.”

Chuckling, Adam claps his hands together, swings smoothly to his feet. “C’mon, then. Let me get you home.”

If Tony were a stronger man, he would say ‘no’. As it is, he gathers up his things, lets Adam usher him out of the office, the kitchen plunging into darkness in their wake.

On the street, lit by the orange halos of the streetlights, they are hyper-aware of one another; of Adam who bumps shoulders with Tony, and Tony who is so in love and so ashamed and hiding himself. The air seems charged, electric.

The five minute walk passes far too quickly, eaten up by long strides and heavy silence. They pause outside the station, and this is where they always part ways -- where things will remain unsaid and uncertain forever -- but this time, Adam makes a decision.

“It’s a nice night,” he muses, feigning nonchalance. “Let’s walk.”

And because Tony can never quite manage to say no to Adam, he finds himself with his arm tucked into the crook of Adam’s elbow and his resolve crumbling, his heart shattering quietly in the confines of his chest.

From the station it is maybe twelve minutes more to make the journey to Tony’s flat, and he cannot bear to spend another minute of it in silence -- to be forever trapped in his silent hell, wondering just what this is they are still playing at.

“Adam…”

“Yeah?” He is so handsome in the twilight. The street light turns his profile to burnished gold, highlights the keen sharpness of his rugged features; the scruff of his stubble, the lightness of his eyes.

And Tony falters. “The menu for tomorrow -- did you decide on the risotto versus the  fideuà ?”

It is not at all what Adam had expected to be asked. “Oh. Yeah.” His expression is impossible to make out in profile. “I figured we could go with the  fideuà -- we’ve done a lot with French and Italian cuisine, adding some Spanish food could be a good change.”

“Mhm.”

Silence.

“It is a versatile dish.” Tony finds himself blathering. If they talk about the menus, about wine pairings and the technical particulars of the dishes, there is no need to talk about other, unsaid things. “We could pair it with a Garnacha or Calimocho cocktails.”

Tony’s building rises up at the end of the street to meet them, a square four-story, sandy brown and wedged tightly into its narrow lot. He fishes in his pocket for the building keys, mounting the low steps. Is this it? Is this where they drop all pretense, where Adam tells him they are done pretending and that none of it matters -- that none of it had been real? And there are so many things he wants to say, apologies and confessions and quiet admissions of affection.  _ I love you, Adam. I love you and I cannot help it, no matter how hard I have tried... _

His mouth is dry, the pulse in his ears throbbing with panic. “You… You want to come upstairs?” It is such a feeble, awkward offering. “I could make coffee?”

The smile curls, slow and delighted, across Adam’s face. “I’d love to.”

Located on the second floor, the flat is pure Tony -- all soft blues and creams and brown leather accents. Adam moves carefully into the flat in Tony’s wake, studying the pictures on the walls -- a photo from they days in Paris, four chefs and one maitre d’ crowded into the frame -- the untidy stacks of books, the record player in its place of honor.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Hospitality. It is the one thing Tony knows in his very bones and he wraps it around himself to stop his voice from quavering, to hold himself steady as he wanders into the open kitchen space, rooting through the cabinets for a pair of mugs. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Adam pulls up one of the sturdy bar stools to sit across from Tony at the counter, chin propped in his hands. “Y’know,” he hums, watching as Tony sets the kettle to boil, fills the french press with measured tablespoons of coffee grounds. “Normally, when you ask someone up for coffee, there’s not actually coffee involved.”

Tony screws up his face, uncomprehending. “But that makes no sense.”

It is absurd, really, the affection that dawns like the sun, full and bright in Adam’s chest. “Look, Tony.” He hooks a finger through the handle of the nearest mug, spins it around on the counter. It reads, in rainbow block letters:  _ Let Me Be Perfectly Queer _ . “ That interview? What they wrote about us? I can’t stop thinking about it, and I bet you can’t either.”

Tony looks away, scratching at the tip of his nose. “No.” It is a painful admission. He distracts himself with the coffee, unwilling to look Adam in the eye. “You know how I feel, Adam. I -- There is no reason to keep pretending. You do not have to --”  _ To act like you love me _ . “The press have left our doorstep, there is no need for a show any longer.”

Adam studies him for a long moment.  _ Oh, Tony. _

And then: “who’s pretending?”

Tony grips the edge of the counter, the breath shuddering out of him when he hangs his head. He cannot bear this. “You don’t love me.” His voice breaks, cracking apart around the edges of the words.

“Weirdly enough,” Adam hums, buoyed by his own certainty now. “I kind of do.”

Tony is not sure which is worse -- if this is all some terrible joke, or if Adam truly means what he says. His mouth works, forming silent, useless syllables.

“Look, I didn’t expect it. But this?” Adam gestures between them. “I like this. Walking with you every day, making you laugh, just...  _ being with you _ . I mean, it feels  _ right _ . Doesn’t it?”

_ Yes _ , Tony wants to say.  _ Yes, of course. _

“Look, I didn’t expect this.” Adam is on his feet, moving slow and deliberate as he rounds the counter, approaching Tony as though he were a frightened animal, easily startled. “I didn’t plan on falling in love with you, but --” Tony flinches when Adam lays his hands on the tense line of his shoulders. “Here we are.”

And Tony turns slowly, slowly to face him.

“I stopped pretending weeks ago, Tones.”

“Oh.” His voice is small, barely more than a fragile breath -- the sound punched out of him. “Oh. I…”  _ I had never hoped -- had not thought it possible _ .

Tony twists in Adam’s hold, presses a kiss quick and desperate against Adam’s lips before he can change his mind. Adam holds him fast, draws him in deeper, and they stumble, tangling together -- Tony backed against the counter, his hands fisted in the front of Adam’s t-shirt, Adam’s hands roaming, rucking up the tails of Tony’s dress shirt to find the smooth, warm expanse of his bare skin.

They abandon the notion of coffee altogether.

Later, they are sated and slack-limbed, curled together in Tony’s bed. Adam strokes his knuckles up and down the smooth curve of Tony’s bare shoulder and marvels -- he is beautiful, tangled in the cool white sheets, an endless span of freckled, golden skin and shy smiles. And to think -- they could have been doing this all along.

There is just one thing...

“You know,” Adam sighs, shifting up on his elbow. “I didn’t plan on doing it all out of order like this. I was gonna ask you on a proper date first, take you out to dinner or coffee or something.” For once, he had wanted to do this  _ right _ .

But Tony smiles, his eyes soft as he stretches to kiss Adam again. Dazzled because he can, because it is all real. “We have never been ones to do things the proper way, have we?”

Falling apart and falling back together. In love before they had ever really known it.

“Nah.” Amused, Adam reaches out to pull Tony close again. “I guess not.”


End file.
